Friedrich Nietzsche’s reborn
as a melting butter stick
in a messy apartment.
He hears a man in the hallway
testify that lightning is not just
a flash to the one it strikes.
Nietzsche tries to write down this idea
that he had not considered,
but the pencil slips from his grasp.
He cries, and his tears are bread.
They absorb him until he becomes
one with the stale goods.
As for me, a TV antenna,
I’ve spent years listening to people
in specials talk of being one’s self.
Do they know that can mean
being one with change?
As a biscuit near the TV set,
Nietzsche reflects on the actions
of the static named Rosa.
She’s solid and deep, much like an electric
scarecrow caught in tall grass,
yet her waves still fluctuate.
Nietzsche asks me, “Is this just a dream?
Is this just somebody’s drug trip?
Why do I sound like René Descartes?
Is that appropriate
for this circumstance?”